It's the End of the World As We Know It
by pedosmile
Summary: When the devil came whispering about the end of the world, Dean was unbelieving. After all, he had never been much a religious person, believing that the world would end by the hands of man, not God or Lucifer.
1. Prologue

**It's the End of the World As We Know It**

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Author's Note:** Uh, so... this was an idea I had been toying around with for a while. It kind of follows the main plot of the show, but there will be a lot of changes and differences in between. Also, I switch tenses a lot and I apologize in advanced for that... U-um... I hope you enjoy!

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**Prologue**

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

The Hollow Man; TS Elliot

Dean awoke suddenly, startled and acutely aware of every minor thing in his little hole of a room. It's too quiet on the floor tonight, the kind of quiet that made a man think too much, and he shuddered as he feels a cold sweat drip down his back. His can feel the flimsy material of his standardized stark white shirt sticking to his skin and he quickly took it off without a second thought, wiping off the thin, cool film of sweat that covered his body. He hadn't remembered a time where he had woke up from a dream with such an alarming sense of panic and it kind of _scared_ him, though he wasn't really sure _why_.

Then again, he couldn't even remember a time where he had a dream so dark, so rich and vivid in detail. It was as if he had actually been there while it was happening - he could _smell_ the death and the decay, the bloated and rotting bodies. He gagged at the phantom sickly sweet smell and buried his face in his hands, wondering vaguely how long that dream - _nightmare_ - would have went on if he hadn't tongued his sleeping medication. He didn't even want to consider the idea.

Or, maybe, the pills would lull his brain and body into a chemical sleep. One of those long, heavy, dreamless sort of sleeps where he woke up either feeling refreshed or stiff and sore because, _damn_, he does not move when he took those sleeping meds.

Standing up, Dean crossed his tiny little piss hole room to the heavy blue door, the one that locked not from the inside but the outside. More for the safety of the nurses than for the patients because who _knew_ what silly shenanigans the crazies could get into if they were free to prowl the hallways at night. He pressed his forehead against the cool, unbreakable glass, and looked out into the dimly lit corridor. Back when he had first arrived in the hospital, when he wasn't busy with his shakes or being strapped to the bed, he would often gaze out the little window pane to the alien outside world. He once found it creepy, the way the hallway would seem to stretch on forever and how, on some nights when only a few lights were on, it would appear as if it were fading away into the shadows. He was sure that the paranoid kiddos on his block had a field day with wondering what was lurking in the darkness, waiting to eat them up, insides and all.

Now, however, it just seemed comforting in that boring, same old every day bullshit sort of way. This entire hospital was boring with it's same old every day bullshit. One would think that all sorts of new and exciting things would happen when you were locked up in a mental hospital, but Dean, as always, was proven wrong. He thought that maybe it's because he had gotten so used to the loons that most of the things they did anymore didn't even surprise him, just amused him on a good day. Other days, he would barely even notice, and he felt like, maybe, it was a bad thing that he was getting used to all the crazies and their antics. Like, maybe, that was making him crazy himself.

He realized that he's listening for the familiar whimpers and cries from the few patients on the ward who did that, but he was greeted with that eery quiet. It's too quiet - there was not even the hush of the heater or the soft squeaks of the nurses shoes against the ugly tile or _anything_ and that _bothered_ Dean. It truly bothered him for some reason he could not place, but a part of him felt like this just was not right.

He felt his heart jolt painfully against his chest when he noticed the silhouette hovering just nearly out of his range of vision at the end of the hall. He stared at it warily, putting his hands against the cool door, as if pressing himself closer was going to get him a better glance at the shadow. It doesn't move for a time, remaining just barely out of eye sight, before, slowly, it began moving down the hall. He just watched it, a sense of dread filling him, as if he really didn't want to see who that person was. As if that person was the bearer of inevitable and bad news.

The face of his mother appeared in front of the window and he sucked in a sharp, startled breath. She was younger, _much_ younger, than when she had died, young like in those old pictures his dad had of her in his wallet, the ones that were yellowing and crinkled from being folded too much. He can't help but stare at her with wonder and awe, wishing the door would open so he could just wrap his arms around her and apologize to her for everything. But, even though he was happy to see her, a part of his mind was screaming at him that this wasn't right. That she was dead and people don't _just_ come back from the dead. Unless... this was a dream.

He was really beginning to hope that this was just another dream. It had to be. If it wasn't, then the orderlies and nurses would be all over his mother and he would hear the babbling from the other patients and he'd feel comfortable and at ease. Listing excuses just made him feel better and he was just going to continue to firmly believe that this was a dream.

She smiled softly at him, a trace of pity on her face, as she stared at him through the little window. Dean just stared right back, offering a small, uneasy smile of his own, unsure of what else to do except just stand and stare at her. He doesn't have many dreams about Mary, his mother, but when he does... well... they're definitely not like this. He was always in his old house, never in the hospital. And she was always older, like how he remembered her - healthy and older and alive like she should have been so she could see her children grow.

The door opened and Dean took a few hesitant steps back, watching Mary warily as she moved over the threshold of the door and into the room in a leisurely fashion. There's an air of dignity about her, of a grace and power far beyond Dean's understanding. She was watching him watching her with calculating eyes, though there was a mocking sort of smile on her lips. Like she was enjoying a good private joke that Dean was not allowed in on.

"Not even going to hug your mother hello?" she asked, her girlish voice cold, hard, and teasing. Nothing at all like _his_ mother's.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clamped shut tightly. He didn't like that, whoever this was, was using his mother as a guise just to speak with him. That was like a hit below the belt. And, for Dean, it definitely hurt a lot more than that. His mother was one of his rare soft spots and many of the patients knew it after he bashed some kid's face in for _insulting_ Mary.

His anger is evident in his tone, "You're _not_ my mom."

"Bingo!" she perched on the edge of his bed, looking up at him and patting the spot next to her, an invitation for him to sit. He did not accept it. Instead, he stood stiffly with his fists clenched tightly at his sides as he glared down at the thing.

"Who are you...?" he was not quite sure if he wanted to know the answer - just looking at his mother (no, _not_ his mom... the thing _pretending_ to be his mom) made goosebumps break out along his skin and the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Her smile widened when she looked at him, as if she could see right through his little tough act, and Dean really felt like she could. But, that didn't mean he was going to stop it.

She threw one leg over the other lazily, cupping her knee with both hands and sighing as she glanced about the room.

"Not much of a place you have here, kiddo," she clucked her tongue. "I thought private hospitals would be..." she tilted her head, lips pursed, groping for the right word, "_nice_."

"It's a _state _hospital," he corrected through gritted teeth.

"It's _quaint_." There was laughter in her voice.

"Who are you?" he tried again, growing more impatient, more anxious. His stomach was knotted up so tight and he was so tense that he was beginning to ache from it. She sighed, like it was all so troublesome to have to explain this, and rolled her head back toward him.

"I... go by many names," there was that elusive, sly smile that touched her lips again. "Old Scratch, Beelzebub, Father of Lies..." she trailed off, yawning ostentatiously.

Dean was silent and he just stared at Mary, seemingly unable to settle on the correct emotion he should be wearing or feeling, even. There was bewilderment and anger that touched his face and his insides, and then dark amusement and then, finally, he decided on a hard, skeptical look. A thin, sarcastic sort of smile was pulling at his lips and Mary - _Lucifer_ - just looks back at him calmly.

"The _devil_?" he sneered, he can't help it. It just seemed so freaking ridiculous that Satan was making a pit stop at some measly hospital in the Midwest just to speak to _him_ of _all_ people. Yeah, this most definitely had to be a dream. A _ridiculous_ dream that he would wake up from and forget it ever happened.

"I know, I know," she held up her hands, as if trying to make peace, "you don't believe in me. But..." her thin fingers curled and she pointed at him, chuckling lightly, "_I_ believe in _you_, Dean Winchester."

His blood ran cold at those words. He did _not_ like the sound of that. But, it was all a dream, wasn't? It had to be. It was all just some stupid ridiculous dream and he'd wake up in the morning and go to his morning session with his therapist and they'd talk about this dream and his doctor would give Dean some reason as to _why_ he was having a conversation with the fucking _devil_. He'd probably say that it had to do with Dean's subconscious trying to speak to him or maybe that he felt guilty or something dumb like that and Dean would take small comfort in the explanation and go on his merry way.

"Now that we have the introductions out of the way," she stood, dusting off her jeans lazily, so nonchalant and calm about this entire thing, "aren't you going to ask why I'm here?" she said it in a way a kindergarten teacher would try to coax her students to finish her sentence as she taught her lesson then award them with a sunny look and a cheerful, _"Very good!"_

Scowling, he asked stiffly, "Why are you here?"

"Aah," she crossed her arms loosely over her chest, lower lip pursing just a bit, "now that's a little harder to explain. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?" she gestured toward the bed again, studying Dean with those pretty blue eyes that belonged to his mother. It hurt to look into them, it brought on too many memories, so instead he just looked away and shook his head.

"Uh, _no_. I'll have to pass." there was no way he was going to sit down next to Lucifer and just chat it up with him like they were at some freaking Sunday brunch tea party. This whole entire dream was just getting a little too absurd for his liking.

"Suit yourself," she heaved a sigh before gazing at him, all of her focus directed entirely on Dean, leaving him feeling overwhelmed. He felt his chest tighten with fear and his stomach flip with sudden anxiety. He definitely did not the way he was being looked at.

"The world is about to end, Dean Winchester," she told him this calmly, as if they were talking about the weather or maybe the final score of some sports game. "There is nothing you can do to stop it, it would be a foolhardy idea to _try_." there was something dark and sinister to her words that made Dean's skin crawl.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"In a few months time, you will see," she reached out, caressing his cheek and he jerked back from her as if her touch burned him, flinging up an arm to shove her hand away. She chuckled and dropped her hand away, not even fazed by his reaction. "You may not remember it, but soon you will." her voice was soft, thoughtful.

"_It_? What are you talking about?" although he could have assumed that she was talking about this whole crazy dream, a part of him felt like she was eluding to something else. Some sort of secret that Dean should have known about.

She flashed a light, bemused smile and her lips were moving, but no words came out. His vision was beginning to grow fuzzy, the edges blackening, like a bad t.v. set flickering in and out of static. He wanted to yell something, like maybe what was going to happen when the big come down happened or _when_ it was going to happen, but his voice caught in his throat.

The last he saw was of the devil staring at him solemnly through the eyes of his mother.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

He opened his eyes, dimly aware of the nurse that stood in his door way clicking her pen aggressively and informing him of the time. What she wanted to say was, _"It is past ten, you little shit, and I'm going to get in trouble if you miss your group session, so get your candied ass out of bed!" _Instead, she was informing him sharply of the time, _again_, and that he had group in five minutes. Some nurses on the floor were impatient like this one and they might plaster on a sugary sweet smile, but, really, this was just a job to them and they didn't give two fucks about the patients. All they cared about was their own ass and the digits on their check that week.

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first three friggin' times," Dean snapped, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He hunched over his knees, rubbing at his eyes, which stung with sleep.

"Oh, _really_?" she smiled thinly at him, clicking her pen faster as her agitation grew. "Because it didn't seem that way the first two times I tried to get you up, _Dean_." she spat his name at him like it was a curse. He just looked at her, his palm digging into one eye, and bit back the snide remark that was on his tongue. He could have insulted her, could have said something nasty, but he did not feel like starting his day off with a pissed off nurse on his ass. He was still reeling over that dream and that was just _enough_ to ruin his day.

_That dream_... It was bizarre, something he couldn't quite shake off and let slip into the deep recesses of his mind where he could forget about it like he wanted. Most dreams he had were foggy and half forgotten by the time he was rolling himself out of bed, no matter how hard he tried to remember them. He would only get fragments and pieces if he was lucky. That one, however, and the one had had before it... they were still fresh on his mind. The devil speaking of the world ending, the words tumbling from his mother's lip and coming to Dean in her sweet, clear voice.

He felt his jaw tense as anger flared to life inside his belly, like a hot coal, once more.

"_Up_!" he had almost forgotten the nurse at the door until her shrill voice broke through his concentration. He shot her a dark glare and put his hands on the side of his bed, pushing himself to his feet.

"I'm up, I'm up." he glanced over at the drawer holding his clothes, but the nurse clucked her tongue warningly.

"No time for that."

_Fucking tight asses_, Dean couldn't help but think, growing more and more annoyed with this nurse... _Caroline_ her name tag read. He never bothered memorizing most of the names of the younger nurses, they would be here for only a few weeks before they moved on to a different ward. They were students and only here to gain _experience_ before they were unleashed onto the medical world. And those student nurses were usually assigned day time nurses because they had to have their precious beauty sleep at night, of course. Day time nurses were always the worst. Maybe because they actually had to deal with the patients, as opposed to the night time nurses who only had to deal with them for a few hours, tops, before putting them to bed.

He shoved past her and into the hall, scratching lazily at his stomach through his shirt as he walked the familiar path to the group therapy room. It was just a room with blue carpeted floors and white washed walls with a ring of chairs in the middle. Most of them were already filled with the familiar faces of those familiar people Dean had grown used to seeing in the hospital.

A few wrinkles appeared between his brows as he stared at _his_ seat, his seat that _should_ be empty, but, instead, was occupied by the ever "pleasant" Jake Talley, who had his back turned to Dean. Of course, it was always Jake who seemed to like to push Dean's buttons, as if he just _knew_ what to say and what to do. From the very first day Dean had arrived, Jake somehow grated against Dean's nerves. He would have punched him by now, but he wasn't looking to go to the "quiet room" and for his privileges to be dropped because of a kid like Jake.

A few people looked up at Dean expectantly, one of them being Dr. Montgomery, the therapist, who smiled that fake, patient smile at Dean.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. Winchester..." he acted like he was almighty, the God of the hospital, of the boys. He was always cold and distant with his patients, and, sometimes, he would nod off between personal sessions. Dean was not at all found of the _doctor_, but he could not get his therapists switched until he started opening his mouth more. And that was quite the difficult thing for Dean to do, despite the fact that his mouth ran constantly.

"_Yeah_," Dean plopped down next to Chuck, who flashed him an anxious apologetic look, as if he were somehow responsible for Dean waking up late or maybe for his "chair" being stolen. But, Dean just brushed it off and leaned back casually as the therapist began rattling off with his usual mumbo jumbo bullshit, asking if anyone had anything to share, the usual boring crap that started off each group therapy session.

Dean grew more and more aware that Chuck was already shivering and twitching lightly next to Dean and it wasn't even noon. Then again, ever since Dean had known Chuck he was a nervous, twitching mess. He kind of reminded Dean of one of those spastic little dogs who would shiver and twitch and shy away from the strangers that would enter their homes, sometimes even piddle on the carpet if they were _that_ frightened.

Though, Dean had never _witnessed_ Chuck pissing himself, he felt like it was very possible.

"U-uh..." Chuck raised his hand timidly, voice quiet. He cleared his throat, as if it would help, "I-I had another weird dream last night..." there were a few collective groans from the group and Dean could have sworn that Montgomery just rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Chuck?" he asked with that detached, patient voice of his.

Chuck thought that his dreams were visions of sorts, given to him by some higher (or maybe even _lower_) being, but the therapist just called them "hallucinations" and nothing more and nothing less. Chuck was suffering from some pretty trippy hallucinations, caused by his own wild imagination and maybe even intensified by those funky little pills he had to take every morning, noon, and night. Sometimes, when Chuck felt brave, he'd share his dreams with whoever was willing to listen to him, which was not a lot of people. So, most of the time, he just kept them to himself, jotting them down in the little notebook he carried with him wherever he went.

"_I'm going to be a writer,"_ he told Dean when he had asked about the notebook. Dean could literally see the stars glimmering in Chuck's eyes when he spoke of his dream and he had just wished the kid the best of luck, telling him crazy people seemed to make for good artists and writers. And Chuck had just gave his usual high pitched nervous giggle, not even bothering to argue that he _wasn't_ crazy.

And though his dreams gave him excellent writing material, Chuck did _not_ like to sleep and said it was because he dreamed too much and he _really_ hated dreaming. He said that his dreams were dark and always grim, that they always had been, that he could never remember having a normal pleasant dream in his entire life. One would have thought that he would just get used to the nightmares, but Chuck couldn't. They _truly_ terrified him. Sometimes, he sat in his room after a particularly long night of rest, staring unseeingly at the wall and crying quietly to himself and refusing to talk to anyone. He said that his dreams put the "fear of God" in him and they scared him so much that, before he entered the hospital, he had turned to the bottle to give him a blissful night of dreamless sleep. That was the only way he could cope, like so many other people in here who all had their dirty little addiction.

"It..." Dean could see Chuck visibly withdrawing again, he even ducked down in his seat a bit. He was aware that most people did not want to listen, not even the therapist who was _paid_ to listen, and he was, once again, withdrawing and becoming that anxious, shivery little dog again. But, Dean was watching him intently, actually willing to listen for the first time in a long time, too. Because, just like Chuck, Dean had a few bizarre dreams of his _own_ last night and he vaguely wondered if, maybe, Chuck had the same dream, _too_. Immediately, the logical side of his brain ruled that out as impossible, and yet Chuck whispered, "I dreamt of the end of the world."

Shock ran over Dean like frigid waves of ice water and he was sure if he looked down at his arms that he would see goosebumps dotting his skin.

Chuck glanced up at Dean anxiously, feeling his gaze _boring_ into him, and he flashed another timid little smile.

"I had a dream like that last night, too," Dean murmured, despite himself. Chuck's eyes widened and their was a brief look of hope that crossed his face, like maybe his dreams _were_ real, maybe he _wasn't_ crazy.

From across the circle, Jake Talley snorted.

"Bull_shit_," he sneered and Dean rolled his eyes, looking over at the boy, face hard and cold with agitation.

"You two butt buddies probably snuggled up with each other last night and came up with this shit."

"What are you doing imagining me and Chuck in bed together?" Dean scoffed and a few giggles rippled through the circle of boys.

"I _wasn't_ imagining it. I _saw_ it." oh, his insults were just terrible, really. Dean almost felt a little pang of pity for the kid.

"That just makes it worse, you sick little peeping tom, you. Maybe I'll let you join us next time, bedroom eyes~" he gave a little wink and kiss toward Jake and the boy tensed, getting ready to spring from his chair, until Dr. Montgomery held up a hand that halted all snickering and movement.

"Why don't you share your dreams with us, boys?" the therapist tried to coax and immediately Chuck shrank back in his chair, as if he could not even begin to handle the pressure of opening up his mind to the group anymore. And Dean, well, he just rolled his eyes and gave a thin little smile.

"What? Are you suddenly _intrigued_, doctor?" it was hard to believe that Montgomery was genuinely interested in anything any of the boys had to say anymore unless it was about his ass and kissing it.

"Merely curious," Montgomery smiled wanly, all too used to Dean's ever present attitude. Even when Dean had arrived, Montgomery did not seem fazed by his sardonic and rude remarks and his general uncaring attitude. Dr. Montgomery was not really fazed by _much_. No matter how hard any of the boys would try to bother him in some sort of way, his feathers always went unruffled. The conspiracy theorists of the ward whispered rumors about how he was a robot or that he was an alien or that the _government_ (because what's a conspiracy theory without involving the government? It's like pie without whipped cream.) did _something_ to him, but what that _something_ was was difficult to speculate on.

Dean watched the doctor with a brow raised, watched the way he looked half interested, the way he had his pen poised and ready, like he was actually going to _jot this down_. Yeah, right. Dean couldn't even remember the last time he opened himself up to Montgomery in group or even when they were _alone_. He hated that whole "share your feelings" crap, he'd rather deal with every thing on his own because he _could_ deal with it on his own. He was dealing just fine, save for a few slip ups here and there, before he was shoved into this damn hell hole. He didn't need a therapist to tell him what was wrong with him, he didn't _want_ a therapist to tell him what was wrong with him. And he certainly didn't want a stranger to hear his inner most thoughts and then judge him and diagnose him with some disease based on those thoughts alone. 

That whole "you need a therapist to make you better! Pills to keep you sane!" was a load of bullshit. Sure, some kids really did need pills and that little couch and man with the pad and pen to talk to, but not _Dean_. He was in there to get clean, to move on with his life, and he had been clean for forty six days, but apparently that was not enough to get him out of the hospital. Apparently he needed to stay longer, to reach deep inside himself so he can "really begin to heal" or whatever. People thought that as soon as he'd be released, he'd go right back to the needle.

He was stronger than that. He had _always_ been stronger than that, he hadn't meant to get mixed up in all that crap, but one thing led to another...

"I'll pass," he crossed his arms loosely over his chest, shifting his attention away from Dr. Montgomery pointedly. There was no way in hell he was going to divulge in Dr. Montgomery's curiosity and tell him and the entire group that he dreamt of the end of the world, that he dreamt of his mother, so young and beautiful, telling him that the end was nigh.

"Chuck?" Montgomery glanced at Chuck, who was chewing quietly at his thumb nail, his fist curled against his lips. He shook his head quickly, sinking even lower in his chair, and Montgomery just nodded, jotting down something on his clipboard before he moved on to someone else who was more willing to share whatever it was they wanted to talk about.

An hour later, after all the feelings were felt and Dean was convinced he was successfully in a chick flick, Montgomery released them into the wild confines of the boys ward. Dean walked out, his stomach clenching tightly with hunger and maybe something else, but he was just going to tell himself that it was hunger and nothing else. Not anxiety, nope. Yet, he couldn't help but feel slightly apprehensive when he and Chuck walked in silence back to one of the "living" rooms, the one the boys in the ward had affectionately dubbed the one they were in the "un-living room". The wit of some of these boys was just _too_ much for Dean sometimes.

"You, um..." Chuck's eyes flicked up to Dean nervously before his eyes darted away, looking for something else to focus on, as if he was afraid Dean would cast a glare at him or something worse. "You seem... _off_ today..."

"Like a robot? Wanna turn me _on_, Chuck-baby?" he waggled his brows suggestively at Chuck, though he was not being serious in the least and Chuck just gave a half hearted, anxious laugh. He remembered a time where he would never even make jokes like this with boys, maybe a close friend or something, but that was rare. He wondered what changed. If he had changed.

They stopped in front of the white board where all the boys names were written in colors with their assigned nurses written next to them, each color meaning something different. Green meant complete privileges, orange meant restricted to grounds, red meant restricted to the block, and black meant restricted to the ward. Dean's name was in orange for being "cooperative", Chuck's was in red for numerous reasons. The board was also a place to see what fresh meat was being dropped off on the chopping block, though Dean hardly ever paid attention. He didn't care who was new, who was old, he just wanted to get _out_.

Still, he and Chuck stood before it, eyes drifting down to the newest edition, a one _Castiel_ who's name was written in black. Everyone started off on black and they had to work their way up with good behavior or something like that. Your name in black meant that you were restricted to the boys ward and the boys cafeteria, _only_. Those who were orange, like Dean, were free to walk around the grounds and to go to the gender mixed cafeteria if they so chose, but they had to have a nurse with them at all times. Green meant you could leave and go to an approved designation as long as you call the nurse when you arrive and before you leave so they can monitor your movements.

Dean would have bolted if he were in the green. He wasn't so sure of where he would have gone, but any place was better than the hospital. Any where with a pulse, maybe, or where he did not feel like his soul was slowly being sucked out of him as each day passed.

"That dream..." he was not entirely sure how to approach that subject, but he was going to try, anyways. The curiosity was eating him alive. "um... you know. The one you were talking about?" he shifted uncomfortably, feeling completely awkward and open. He hated feeling like that.

"Yeah...?" Chuck was looking at him now.

"What happened?"

"_Oh_," Chuck let out a low breath, his face paling. "Oh, _that_." it was like he had been trying to forget and just trying to remember was painful for him. Then again, Chuck's dreams always seemed to be painful for the kid, there was just no getting around that. He swallowed heavily, crossing his arms tightly around his midsection.

"I dunno, Dean, I-I don't really–"

"_Chuck_, just tell me. And skip the bullshit."

Chuck just nodded timidly, glancing around warily for a second, as if he had really been expecting someone to be listening in on their conversation, before shuffling away from the name board and motioning Dean to follow.

"Okay," he breathed, once they were seated in a couple of mismatched chairs near by. "I-It was... it was pretty intense, man. I can't remember the last time I had a dream this _real_ before..." he shivered, toying anxiously with the belt of his fuzzy, olive green bathrobe that he always seemed to be wearing. "It was, like, the end of days, Dean. There was no getting around that. _Everyone_ was dead. _Everyone_. And the smell..." his face wrinkled at the phantom memory and Dean just stared, knowing exactly what Chuck meant.

"It was like one of those t.v. shows on the History Channel? Where all the humans are dead and the world just starts fresh? But, they don't show the bodies in those shows, do they?" he gave another little high pitched, nervous giggle. "Y-yeah. I-I remember there was, like, this _mountain_ of corpses, yellowed and waxy with this crusty black stuff coming out of their nose and eyes and mouths... And someone was standing on top of it, though I couldn't see them..."

Because the sun was behind them, making them appear to be nothing more but an illusion or a silhouette, yeah. Dean knew exactly what Chuck was talking about, down to every last detail that the kid was leaving out.

"Was it in a dessert...?" he asked quietly.

Chuck's eyes widened and he just nodded, licking his lips. "Y-yeah. And then the dream changed and I was in..." his eyes drifted about the room and Dean knew what he was about to say, "I was in one of the rooms _here_. And there was this lady, real cute–" Dean tried to ignore that comment "–woman, had this blonde Farrah Fawcett 'do... it was kinda weird. But, she was talking to someone, but I couldn't see who she was talking to. It was like I was just coming in on the conversation. She was telling whoever she was talking to that the world was going to end, that there was nothing they could do to stop it..."

"That it'd be a foolhardy idea to try..." Dean's voice was barely a whisper and he and Chuck exchanged glances, Dean looking more grim than Chuck, who was looking increasingly more frightened as he continued to tell his tale.

"And that it was going to happen in a few months..." his voice was hushed and the two boys fell into an uneasy, tense silence, both looking down and away from each other.

"B-but, it's just a dream, right?" Chuck laughed it off, though he didn't sound fully convinced. "And how can two people have the same dream?"

Dean just smiled, one that did not reach his eyes, and he nodded, "Yeah. Just a dream."

Deep down in a place where they did not want to tread, however, they both knew that it was a warning.


End file.
